


One Simple Question.

by BarPurple



Series: Mollcroft for the win [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, BAMF Molly, Diogenes Club, Emotional Hurt, Established Relationship, F/M, Happy Ending, Major Character Injury, Marriage Proposal, Mild Language, Minor Illness, Minor Injuries, Some mentions of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5389202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One question. Four words. Easy. The perfect moment? That's bloody hard to find.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Year's Eve - The Shard

**Author's Note:**

> DanannB left the following prompt on Don't Believe What You See.
> 
> ...how about Mycroft proposing? Like a 5 times thing where he keeps trying to get her alone in a private or romantic setting, but everything keeps going wrong; interruptions, crises, natural disasters, etc. then he finally unceremoniously blurts it out in utter frustration in a not so private or romantic setting...

Like diamonds scattered across black velvet the lights of London glittered beneath them. Tonight the normally breath taking view was only a pale reflection of the wonders in the sky. London’s New Year’s firework display was always an opulent extravaganza and Molly loved the glitter and joy of it all. This year Mycroft had promised she would have the very best view of the celebrations, but she’d never dreamed that meant they’d be attending a party atop the Shard. 

Eighty-seven floors up London became a toy village, for the first time in her adult life Molly felt tall, like Gulliver in Lilliput. She gasped as the London Eye erupted into a purple and gold Catherine Wheel. Mycroft squeezed her hand and she returned the gesture unable to tear her eyes from the marvels before her. The display ended and the party erupted into cheers and whoops that quickly became Auld Lang Syne. She smiled up at Mycroft as they joined in the singing, hands crossed and linked with other party goers ringing in the New Year as millions across the city did the same.

Mycroft dipped his head towards her and they shared their first kiss of a new year. 

“Happy New Year, my darling Molly.”

“Happy New Year, my dearest Croft.”

Mycroft smiled softly and took a small step back. He licked his lips and for a second Molly thought he was steeling himself for something. She never found out what. At that moment a reveller who was very worse for drink stumbled into Mycroft’s shoulder and spilled the contents of his cocktail glass all over Molly.

“Whoops! Sorry sweetheart.”

“Have a care, sir!”

Molly gasped in shock, which unfortunately brought the stink of the drink she was now wearing deep into her sinuses. She gagged.

Mycroft roughly shoved the drunk into the arms of his friends, who even through their own alcohol haze realised that their friend was in deep shit. 

“Mycroft, I’ve got to get out of this dress.”

Mycroft growled in displeasure as he heard the oblivious drunk’s leering comment at Molly’s choice of words. He stepped towards her and caught the whiff of alcohol.

“Pernod. Damn. Come on.”

He wrapped a protective arm around his girlfriend and barged through the crowd of stammering fools who’d ruined his carefully laid plans. The disappointment for the moment lost was over ruled by concern for Molly. She was allergic to aniseed and even the smell of it could cause her to vomit. Thankfully he had taken the Westminster Suite for the night, so a quick trip in the lift brought then to the shower and blessed relief for Molly.

The necessary shower had turned into something altogether more pleasurable. Mycroft gazed fondly at Molly’s sleeping face on the pillow next to him. His question could wait; she deserved a perfect romantic gesture.

_After an anonymous tip, Inland Revenue will be paying a call to the hungover Mr Rupert Martin. Happy New Year, sir. – A_


	2. March – Florence, Italy.

Mycroft had seen the much read book on Molly’s shelf on one of his earliest visits to her little flat. The spine was so fractured and torn he’d had to slide the book from the shelf to read the title from the cover. _A Room With a View_ by E. M. Forster. His eyebrows raised in shock as he flicked through Molly’s copy of the twentieth century classic, every page margin was crammed with neatly written notes in brio. Molly looked after her books with an obsessive fastidiousness that would put most librarians to shame; this was not like her at all. The explanation was found on the inside cover, Molly’s initials and the dates of her time at college. Aha, of course Molly had studied English Literature at A Level. This had to be one of her course books, but this was the only one she had kept; interesting.

It had taken him three more visits to surreptitiously read the book. He already knew Forster’s original text, it was Molly’s notes he was interested in. He caught glimpses of the woman he knew in the teenaged musings he read and found a delightful happiness in this window to past Molly. 

After his failed proposal on New Year’s Eve a new plan formed thanks to that book.

 

A field of bluebells proved elusive, but a day trip to Teatro Romano in Fiesole had all the makings of a perfect setting. Right up to the moment they heard the scream and panicked rattle of Italian.

“Aiuto! Mia moglie! Il nostro bambino!”

Without a clear understanding of the language Molly had already broken into a run towards the shouting man. Mycroft was less than a step behind her. Molly took full advantage of her small stature and elbowed her way through the gathered crowd of slack jawed onlookers. Mycroft saw her drop to her knees by the heavily pregnant woman and begin to make universal soothing gestures as she took the woman’s pulse and checked her pupils.

“Mycroft! Call an ambulance. I need you to translate for me.”

He responded with a curt nod and delegated the task of phoning for help to the most sensible looking by-stander. He crouched down next to the soon to be father.

“La mia ragazza è un medico. Lei può aiutare.”

Reassured the man quickly answered Mycroft’s questions.

“Signora Segreto is eight and a half months along with her first child. There have been no problems to date and she is in good health.”

“Has she had any discomfort in her lower back today?”

Molly didn’t take her eyes from the woman as she spoke and she kept her face calm and smiling, even though Mycroft caught the slight worry in her tone. He relayed the question.

“Some, she thought it was just normal aches, but the pain has been getting steadily…oh dear.”

The sudden spreading wetness across Signora Segreto’s lower half hadn’t escaped Molly’s notice. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a sterile pack of latex gloves.

“Ask if I can examine her. And for God’s sake get these people to go away. Mycroft! Focus.”

“Yes, s-sorry Molly.”

 

The next fifteen minutes passed by in a blur for Mycroft. His indisputable tone of authority cleared the small crowd of useless looky-lous. Then he was shanghaied into the role of nurse and moral support for Signor Segreto. Somewhere in between the blood, grunted swearing and Molly’s calm encouragement a new life came into the world. 

Mycroft could only smile in bemusement as Molly mouthed, ‘Sorry,’ as she wrapped the baby girl in her brand new silk shawl before carefully laying the child on the mother’s breast.

The ambulance arrived and the happy new family were taken away, but not before Signor Segreto had asked Mycroft to bring Molly by to visit tomorrow. 

Molly puffed out a deep breath and Mycroft turned to find her crying.

“Molly!”

“Happy tears Mycroft. I’ve helped a new life into the world.”

Mycroft smiled and hugged her to him. In the past fifteen minutes he had not once considered that obstetrics was a million miles from pathology. She’d been so calm and in control, he’d not doubted her ability to handle the situation.

“You’ve never done that before have you?”

“Not since my A&E rotation and never on my own.”

“Considering a chance of speciality?”

“Nope.”

 

Two days later saw them flying home. Mycroft spared Molly’s still bare left ring finger a single sad glance. Oh well, he’d just have to make a new plan. He smiled fondly as he looked at the photos on his phone of Molly holding the tiny baby, named by her proud and grateful parents Isabella Molly Segreto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google Translate is as far as my language skills go. Apologies if I've not chosen the correct option. 
> 
> Aiuto! Mia moglie! Il nostro bambino! - Help! My wife! Our baby!
> 
> La mia ragazza è un medico. Lei può aiutare. - My girlfriend is a doctor. She can help


	3. June – Punting on the Cam

Mycroft surprised the Alumni office at Cambridge by requesting to speak at an event in June. Every year he had turned down their invitation with a polite hand written letter, so he could only imagine the stir his request may have caused. They were probably trying to work out which soon to graduate student he was scouting for government work. Let them speculate, he only had one goal to achieve during the weekend in his old university stomping ground.

He hoped that this third time would be the charm. On Sunday he would return to London engaged to Molly Hooper.

His speech was well received and his old friends and acquaintances were charmed by the intelligent woman on his arm. Even the weather was co-operating by being fair, sunny and warm. Possibly that should have been a warning that everything else was about to go to hell. 

Molly lay back on the pillows and smiled dreamily at Mycroft as he punted them along the river Cam. A wicker picnic basket rested at her feet. She knew it contained champagne and strawberries because she’d peeked when Mycroft wasn’t looking. 

“You’ll need to duck, Molly.”

She did just that as Mycroft steered the punt into the overhanging branches of a weeping willow. The leafy trailers settled back into place and cocooned them from view. She chuckled as Mycroft stowed the pole and gracefully settled down opposite her.

“Well, isn’t this secluded Mr Holmes? An old haunt of yours?”

“Would it surprise you if I said yes?”

“A little, but not much. Everyone gets up to things at uni.”

“The only thing I got up to here was reading. My uni years were stunningly unadventurous.” 

The dappled sunlight played across her face and made the wicked glint in her eyes look all the more delicious. She carefully got to her knees and Mycroft feel his breath catch as she leaned towards him. Then her eyes darted to the left and she paused, a small crease forming between her eyebrows.

“Molly?”

“Damn it. Is that what it looks like?”

He turned his head and followed her gaze. For about half a second he tried to convince himself it was nothing more than a twisted root; a twisted root that looked a lot like a human hand; a twisted root that was wearing blue nail varnish and a sliver ring. Bugger.

The rest of the afternoon was spent giving statements to the local police and CID detectives. Mycroft wryly thought that stumbling over a dead body while trying to romantically propose was probably Sherlock’s ideal scenario.


	4. August – Bristol Balloon Fiesta, or not.

Mycroft ended the call and slipped his mobile back into his pocket. With a groan he slumped forward and let his forehead bounce of the leather blotter of his desk.

Without raising his head he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a white envelope. His elbows came to rest on either side of his head and tore the envelope and its contents into tiny pieces, all the while softly cursing in as many languages as he could muster. He threw the pieces across his desk and finally raised his head.

There would be no trip to Bristol tomorrow; no romantic hot air balloon ride during the Nightglow; no engagement ring finally secured on the slim and apparently elusive finger of Doctor Molly Hooper.

Mycroft inhaled slow and deep through his nose as he attempted to regain a semblance of calm. It couldn’t be helped. Molly worked in a hospital after all and although her contact with living patients was limited by the scope of her work, that was no barrier to viruses. A particularly nasty stomach flu was doing the rounds at St Barts and Molly had fallen foul of it. 

With a frustrated growl he slammed his hands down on his desk and pushed himself to his feet, his chair rolled into the wall with a heavy thud. His wastepaper bin received a vicious kick. The sight of it rolling away on its side trailing its contents across the floor stopped his tantrum in its tracks.

“For God’s sake! I’m behaving like Sherlock!” 

Darling considerate Molly had forbidden him to visit her. She didn’t want him getting sick as well and apparently she was infectious for at least two more days. He’d tried to point out that he’d seen her only thirty-six hours ago, so had already been exposed, but she’d put her foot down. He suspected that she didn’t want him to see her vomiting and rushing for the loo. 

“Well, that’s tough titty kid.”

He shuddered as he realised he’d just quoted a line from that bloody awful alien plant thing he’s been forced to attend with his parents. He made a mental note to make Sherlock suffer for weaselling out of that one, before yelling for Anthea.

His ever stoic PA spared barely a glance to the disarray in his office and waited with a tilted head until he spoke.

“Molly’s sick. Stomach flu. Any suggestions?”

“Hot water bottle, barley water and chick flicks. I’ll put together a hamper to send to her.”

“No, I’ll take it over myself tonight,” he raised a hand to forestall her next comment, “I’ve already had the warning that I should stay away in case I get sick, but frankly I don’t care,” his tone noticeably softened as he continued, “She needs to be looked after.”

Anthea held her tongue and instead gave a simple nod. As she left the office she idly wondered what animal Fate would accept as a sacrifice in order to let her boss finally pop the question.


	5. October – Dinner at The Ledbury.

Political wrangling at home and abroad had kept Mycroft busy for the past few months. He’d spoken to Molly every day, even when he’d not been able to tell her where in the world he was. When he had been in London he’d burnt the candle at both ends in order to spend time with her. There been more than a few occasions when he’d given serious consideration to walking away from the career he’d built and, well to be honest he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he left Whitehall, but the temptation was there.

Finally the chaos had reached a plateau and he was taking Molly to dinner in Notting Hill. The engagement ring he’d carried with him since New Year’s Eve snug in his waistcoat pocket. A simple after dinner proposal, followed by a wedding as soon as Molly would permit. He’d pulled every string he could and be wedded to her by lunchtime tomorrow, but he suspected she might want something a little more planned. 

 

Twelve hours later he was standing, not at the altar, but in a grim hospital corridor. Sherlock limped to his side and handed him a cigarette. Mycroft considered it for a moment, but shook his tired head and handed it back. Sherlock calmly lit it for himself and inhaled deeply.

“She’s going to be fine, brother mine.”

“I know Sherlock. A dislocated shoulder and a concussion aren’t life threatening.”

“She was amazing last night.”

“She’s always amazing.”

Sherlock smoked in silence for a moment and Mycroft found the second hand smoke was causing his head to swim. He’d not indulged in his occasional habit since he started dating Molly. She’d not asked him to refrain, but he knew she disliked it, so he’d simply stopped.

“I honestly had no idea Mackenzie would try and take a hostage.”

Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“But you did know I was dining at The Ledbury. And you deliberately chased him there to make use of my security team.”

Mycroft rounded on his brother, who to his credit didn’t flinch from the anger that bore down on him.

“Was it so hard to wait for Lestrade to organize proper back up? Could you and your blogger not resist the urge to play hero just for once? I could have lost her Sherlock!”

“I’m sorry Mycroft. Molly’s my friend and it made me sick to see I’d put her in danger.”

“It’s what you do. Just go away Sherlock. Leave me alone.”

Sherlock turned away, but had only gone three steps before he turned and said;

“We’ve both chosen dangerous courses for our lives Mycroft. The people we care for are in constant danger just by associating with us. The trick is learning to accept that.”

Mycroft stared silently at his brother until Sherlock shrugged and limped slowly away. Once he was gone from sight Mycroft pulled the black ring box from his pocket. He opened it and looked at the simple silver band and the Alexandrite stone winking raspberry red in the artificial light. He snapped the box shut and returned it to his pocket. He needed to make a decision, but he wasn’t willing to do anything so potentially life changing in his current emotional state.


	6. November – The Diogenes Club. The Question Asked.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It entered the history of the Diogenes Club as the Day of the Doctor, and a surprising number of members got the reference. After all if anyone could be compared to the mad man in the blue box it was Molly Hopper. The Oncoming Storm might play with the rules of Time and Space, but she done the truly impossible, she’d melted the heart of the Iceman.

Mycroft had sought sanctuary in the welcome enforced silence of the Diogenes Club. The soft rustle of newspapers and the odd supressed cough was failing to provide its usual balm for his mind. The storm raging inside of him revealed itself only the tight set of his jaw as he stared moodily into the fire. The other members recognized the look of a man with much on his mind and had left a wide circle of empty chairs around him; it wasn’t as if they could offer him any words of comfort anyway.

The turmoil in his mind was all because of Molly Hooper. He loved her and wanted to protect her, but as his brother had pointed out his life could be dangerous. Was it selfish of him to want to keep the joy and comfort Molly brought into his life? Wouldn’t it be better for her if he ended their relationship? Was that a decision he could make for her? He knew what her opinion would be on that score. Then there was his constant failure to propose to her to be considered. Mycroft had no patience with concepts of Fate or destiny, but he did accept that one’s subconscious mind could work against the desires of waking thought. Was he failure to secure Molly’s hand in marriage a manifestation of his subconscious doubts about their relationship?

He sighed softly and let his eyelids slide closed as he once again turned the problem over in his mind. The small solid sound of something thunking into the chair back by his shoulder caused his eyes to open slowly. 

A man wearing a cheap black suit stood behind the empty chair in front of him, aiming a gun at his chest. The noise he’d heard hadn’t been a bullet impact, so dart gun filled with tranquiliser. This was the case Sherlock was currently working on; armed robbers entering high end restaurants and clubs during the quieter times of the day, drugging everyone inside before robbing them. The take on each occasion had been low and it had already crossed his mind that the gang was practising for a bigger target. The Diogenes hadn’t been high on his list of possibilities, which proved just how distracted he'd been recently. Without moving Mycroft was aware of at least four more intruders, the fact that they had penetrated this far in to the Diogenes suggested that the security detail had been incapacitated, or there was an element of inside help. That was something to look into later. Balance of probability suggested that assistance had to arrive from outside the club and therefore would take at least ten minutes. These idiots had severely underestimated the members of the Diogenes Club. There was a possibility that this was going to be a satisfying way to burn off some of his current tension.

All of this sped through Mycroft’s mind in less than a heartbeat.

In a smooth languid movement he returned his whiskey tumbler to the small table at his side. Then with unexpected speed his fingers caught the rim of the table and flicked to across the room into the face of his attacker. In a blur of movement Mycroft was out of his chair, his body held low to the ground as he slammed the chair opposite into the armed man’s chest. The man tumbled backward and his head hit the floor with a sickening crack. It was at this point that the fighting truly broke out.

Apart form Mycroft the members currently enjoying the peace of the Diogenes club could all be described thus; old, good natured chaps, who had spent the past several years, if not decades, indulging in good food, fine wine and more brandy and cigars than their doctors were happy about.

First impressions can be so very misleading. These were men who had fought in wars, both on the battlefields and in the sometimes more fatal corridors of Whitehall. They still boxed and practised fencing, admittedly more as a bit of fun these days, but the muscle memory was intact and they were fiercely protective of their home turf.

The members were taking full advantage of the confusion and apparent reluctance of their attackers to resort to their fists. Mycroft saw one of the intruders beaten in to submission by Sir Stanley, who was wielding a three tiered cake stand to devastating effect. Colonel Montgomery knocked his opponent’s weapon from his hand with a sharp blow from his walking stick, before breaking the man’s nose with an ungentlemanly head-butt. The Right Honourable John Symthe was sitting atop a foot stool under which a stunned intruder was pinned.

The interlopers had entered with disciplined quiet, but they had begun shouting the second they met resistance. For the gentlemen of the Club, silence in this room had become such an ingrained habit they didn’t utter a sound as they showed the intruders what for. The unintended psychological tactic it was proving successful as the few remaining intruders were now wasting breath trying to taunt their opponents into speech. All that resulted in was some disturbingly eerie smirks and smiles.

A commotion from the hall preceded Sherlock’s dramatic entrance, Doctors Watson and Hooper close on his heels. The three new arrivals took in the scene before them in varying states of stunned silence. It was apparent they had expected to provide rescue, not mop up the unsuccessful attackers. The only sounds to be heard in the room were the whimpers of the vanquished and the rapid breathing of the club members. John Watson moved towards Sir Stanley, obviously concerned about the nature of the gentleman’s breathing, but nobody else moved. 

They could have danced the Can-Can for all Mycroft cared; he only had eyes for Molly Hooper, who was looking at him with concern, relief and honest-to-God love shining from her brown eyes. There was no way in Hell he was going to give her up. 

“Molly, will you marry me?”

As the words echoed around the room, Mycroft realised he had spoken them. The surprise on his face was partly over how easy it had been to finally give voice to his desire and partly because he’d broken the club rules and didn’t give a damn. There was also a small amount of embarrassment that he’d just proposed in the least romantic setting possible, in front of half a dozen criminals, some of the most powerful men in the country and his little brother.

The smile on Molly’s face made all of that fade into the background. She swiftly crossed the room and stood in front of him. She nodded her head. Mycroft pulled the ring box from his waist coat and removed the ring. He took her left hand and stop just before he slid the ring into place. He ducked his head towards her ear and whispered as softly as he could.

“I need to hear you say it.”

She took a deep breath and loud and clear said;

“Yes Mycroft. I will marry you.”

He sighed and finally slipped the ring on to her finger, before crushing her to him and kissing her.

A sudden gentle applause from the assembled staff and members broke the kiss and caused both Molly and Mycroft to blush. The elder Holmes was surprised to see Sherlock was joining in with the restrained celebration. The instant Sherlock was sure he had his brother’s eye he mouthed;

“About time brother mine.”


End file.
